The Lost Testament (17 page)

As Husani had blearily opened his eyes, his mind had already been working hard. He needed to travel farther, because once he revealed details of his find to the world, the spotlight would fall on him no matter where he went to ground. That was why he still wanted to get to Madrid.

And so, at a few minutes after ten that morning, he’d leaned back and tried to relax in his seat in the economy section of the Air Europa 737-800 for the two-hour flight to the capital of Spain.

Finding a hotel after he’d landed had been easy: he’d taken a cab ride to the center of Madrid and just picked one of the cheaper-looking ones at random. Then he’d taken a nap in his room before finally opening up the tattered briefcase that comprised all his luggage. He’d spent a few minutes looking at the photographs Ali had supplied for him, slightly disappointed that several sections of the text on the parchment were still illegible; then he’d locked away both the photographs and the relic in the room safe and ventured out onto the streets of Madrid to do some shopping.

He needed clothes and washing gear, obviously, plus a bag or suitcase of some sort to keep them in, but he also wanted to find a good-quality case with decent locks for the parchment. The clothing wasn’t a problem, but tracking down a small and secure case was rather more difficult. Eventually he located something he thought was ideal in a specialist shop on the outskirts of the city center. It was a normal-looking small briefcase, but far heavier than its appearance suggested.

This was because both the base and the lid were lined with steel plates, each with a double layer of Kevlar for additional security. The case was, the shop assistant explained to him, virtually impossible to get into without a key. Levers and hammers would have almost no effect on it, and even high-speed drills would find it difficult to penetrate the multiple layers of protection. It would even deflect a bullet from a pistol, thanks to the Kevlar, he claimed.

It was a very expensive item, and would have made such a huge dent in Husani’s remaining supply of euros that he took a chance and used his credit card to complete the purchase. He was going public quite soon with details of the relic, and so it really didn’t matter if anyone knew he was now in Madrid.

The other expensive purchase was a netbook, also bought with the plastic card. He would need to use the Internet, and probably use it a lot, over the next day or so.

Weighed down with his new purchases, Husani returned to his hotel and locked the door behind him. Then he booted up the netbook, ran through the initiation sequence for the new machine, and started looking for an online Latin dictionary. Once he’d found one that seemed comprehensive enough, he started deciphering some of the sections of writing on the parchment.

By eight that evening, he’d translated about a quarter of the text that was legible, but what he’d read had only served to confuse him. It wasn’t what he’d expected, though in truth he didn’t really know
what
he’d expected. The sections he’d translated contained what sounded like legal arguments, none of which seemed either particularly interesting or revealing.

He locked the parchment, the photographs and his partial translation back in the safe, walked out of the hotel and found a quiet restaurant nearby, where he ate a simple meal, his thoughts distracted and confused.

When he returned to his room, he looked again at what he’d so far managed to decipher, conflicting emotions coursing through him. Nothing he’d read on the parchment seemed important enough to justify the extreme measures that had been taken back in Cairo. Was he missing something? There had to be some vitally important piece of information, some dark and dangerous secret, hidden away within the text. He just hadn’t found it yet.

Perhaps, he mused, as he fell gratefully into bed, he would ask Ali Mohammed’s advice about how best to proceed. With his greater experience he would be able to read more of the Latin and find out why the parchment was so important. And he was in the business, and might well be able to come up with a few suggestions about who might be worth approaching first with a view to selling the relic.

With that comforting thought occupying his mind, he quickly fell into an exhausted slumber.

That day, Angela was to realize just how important the relic was to the shadowy group of people pursuing it.

She arrived at work at the British Museum at her usual time, Bronson accompanying her as far as the entrance gate, before he headed back home. She had protested that it was unnecessary and stupid for him to come all the way up to London with her, but in truth she was actually very grateful.

Once inside the building, she felt quite safe and secure, and got on with her work in a fairly cheerful frame of mind. That lasted until just before eleven, when a member of the administration staff knocked on her door and stepped into her office holding a sheet of paper.

“Sorry to bother you, Angela,” the girl said. “We don’t quite know what to do with this e-mail.”

Angela took it and read the brief message written in halting English. The text read:

I have what you want. Must talk with Angila friend of Ali. Only deal with Angila. Ali dead in Cairo.

She read the message twice, and nodded slowly.

“Does it mean anything to you?” the girl asked. “I only brought it to you because the sender mentions the name Angila, which is pretty close to Angela.”

“Yes, yes, it does mean something,” Angela replied, her heart starting to beat a little faster. “Can you do me a favor, please, June? Can you please copy the e-mail to my account here. I’d like to take a look at it myself, see what else I can find out about it from the header and the routing.”

June smiled brightly.

“One of the IT guys did that already, actually. He can’t be completely sure exactly where it was sent from, but he told me it was certainly somewhere in or near Madrid.”

That was unexpected.

“Madrid?” Angela echoed. “I thought it must have come from Egypt. He was sure about that, was he?”

“Yes. But you can always give him a call if you want to ask him about it.”

Angela shook her head.

“No, I’m sure he’s right. It’s just a bit unexpected, that’s all. Anyway, I’d like to reply to this myself, so just forward it to my account, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Less than five minutes later, her laptop sounded a tone, and Angela opened up the e-mail. The routing indeed indicated Spain. And that, from her point of view, seemed like a much safer destination than Cairo, or anywhere else in Egypt.

She thought for a few moments about exactly what to say, then quickly wrote a short message.

Two minutes after that, she was knocking on the office door of her superior, a copy of the e-mail and the sheaf of photographs of the parchment clutched in her hand.

Chris Bronson was waiting outside the gates of the museum in Great Russell Street when Angela walked out just after five. She had a lot to do, and not a great deal of time to complete it.

They walked together westward along the street, heading for Tottenham Court Road, Bronson keeping a careful look out all around them as they did so. He didn’t think Angela was in serious danger—at least, not yet—but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Tucked into the rear waistband of his trousers was a loaded nine-millimeter Browning semiautomatic pistol, an entirely illegal weapon that he had acquired a long time ago. He was acutely aware that if he was caught with the pistol, he would face a prison sentence, notwithstanding the fact that he was a police officer authorized to carry a firearm on duty. But Angela’s safety was far more important to him than any legal repercussions that might ensue. If she was attacked by anyone, he wanted to be quite certain he could protect her, and if it came to a firefight, he could always claim that he’d simply picked up the pistol in the confusion. He’d taken care that when he’d loaded weapon he’d cleaned each round and every part he’d touched in the past, and then used rubber gloves to charge the magazine and insert it in the butt. The only fingerprints of his that were on the Browning, he was quite certain, were on the outside of the weapon, and those he hoped he would be able to explain away.

As they walked, they talked.

“Are you really sure this is a good idea?” Bronson asked.

“Frankly, no, but I’ve talked to a couple of people at the museum, including my boss, and I’ve shown them the photographs of the parchment. They all agreed that it was of potentially international importance, and if the British Museum can possibly buy it, we intend to do just that. You won’t believe the budget I’ve been given.”

“So it’ll just be your decision, then?”

Angela shook her head.

“No, not for a purchase of this importance. The museum’s sending out an expert on ancient parchments and codices, and I’ll meet him in Madrid. In fact, the only reason why I’m being sent out there at all is that the man who sent the e-mail—and I still don’t know his name—said he would only deal with me. I suppose that was because I was a friend of Ali, so to some extent I’m a known quantity.”

Bronson nodded.

“And you definitely want me to fly out there with you?”

“I told my boss I wasn’t prepared to go unless you could come with me, just in case there’s any trouble. One thing I know about you, that I’ve always known about you, is that you’d willingly take a bullet for me.”

Bronson glanced at her and raised an eyebrow.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said mildly.

“And so do I.”

They walked down the steps into the Tottenham Court Road Underground station. Bronson fed his one-day travel card into the slot on the turnstile while Angela slapped down her Oyster card on the one next door, and a couple of minutes later they were standing on the platform waiting for the next southbound train.

“So your plan is?” Bronson asked.

“First thing tomorrow morning we’ll take a taxi to Gatwick and fly to Madrid. After that, I have no idea. Unless this anonymous man contacts me and tells me where and when to meet him, we’ll just be taking a very short holiday in Spain.”

“You still don’t know who he is, then?”

“No. He gave no name in his e-mail, and his account was one of those anonymous Web-based ones, and his username was just a jumble of letters and numbers. When I replied, I gave him my e-mail address, obviously, my mobile phone number and also your mobile number, as a matter of fact.”

“You were pretty sure I would come with you, then.”

“I was absolutely certain about that,” Angela said, grinning at him.

Bronson glanced up at the illuminated display board above the platform, which gave the times and destinations of the next trains to arrive. And then they both felt the telltale wind in their faces as the approaching Northern Line train pushed a mass of air through the tunnel toward them.

Most of the passengers standing waiting on the platform looked either at the display board or down the tunnel. Bronson did neither. He concentrated on the people themselves, on the waiting passengers.

Although the worst of the rush hour was over, the station was still crowded with people, many of whom had now moved slightly closer to the edge of the platform, in anticipation of the train’s arrival, and to ensure that they would be at the front of the queue to get on board.

Angela traveled on the Underground every working day, and was well aware that, if the trains were crowded, waiting at the back of the platform would pretty much guarantee that she wouldn’t get on the next train. She also took a couple of steps forward, so as to be nearer the train when it stopped.

As she did so, a man—heavily built and wearing a light-colored anorak, blue jeans and scuffed trainers—stepped into the space that had opened up between Bronson and Angela, and stood directly behind her.

Bronson grunted in irritation at the way the man had barged in, and stepped forward and slightly to his right, placing himself as close to Angela as he could get, which put him on the man’s right-hand side.

It wasn’t a shock of instant recognition, or anything like that, but there was something about the man that was familiar to Bronson in some way, though at that moment he couldn’t place what it was.

The lights of the train were now shining on the tunnel walls, and the noise of its approach grew louder. It would arrive at the platform within a few seconds. And then, with a final rush of hot and fast-moving air, the train swept into the station, still traveling very quickly.

The man beside him shifted his position slightly as the train appeared and started to slow down. His head began moving rapidly from side to side as his gaze switched between the edge of the platform and the oncoming train.

And then things happened very quickly.

The man reached out and grabbed Angela’s arms from behind, just above the elbow. She tried to turn toward him, but his grip was too strong, and although she opened her mouth, whatever she said was drowned out by the noise of the train. He started propelling her toward the edge of the platform and the certain death that waited just a few feet away.

And at that moment, Bronson realized why the man had seemed familiar. He’d definitely seen this person before—or somebody wearing precisely the same outfit—when they’d been walking down Great Russell Street away from the museum. And he’d just made his intentions lethally clear.

If nothing happened, in seconds there would be a scream and a tumble, and the smell of burning flesh as Angela’s body made contact with the live rail and the lethal voltage running through it. And if that wasn’t enough, the momentum and colossal weight of the oncoming train would be the ultimate guarantee that she would not survive.

As with so many things in life, timing is everything.

Bronson’s movements were a blur. He took two quick steps forward, reached out with his left hand and seized the man’s arm. He tugged as hard as he could, turning both the man himself and Angela slightly toward him. That moved her very slightly away from the danger area at the edge of the platform. But Bronson was only just getting started.

The moment the killer turned toward him, Bronson smashed his right fist directly into the man’s cheek, knocking him backward. It wasn’t a knockout blow, but it did its job, forcing the man to release his grip on Angela’s arms. Knocked off balance, she stumbled and then fell clumsily to the ground. She was just clear of the platform’s edge.

The killer regained his balance almost instantly and powered his right fist into Bronson’s stomach. But he’d seen the blow coming, and managed to turn slightly sideways so that it missed his solar plexus, just catching the flesh below his ribs. It hurt, but it didn’t incapacitate him. Bronson continued to turn, spinning on his heels, then threw a left jab, aiming for the right side of the man’s rib cage.

The blow never connected, because his opponent swung his right arm down and backward, knocking Bronson’s arm out of the way. Whoever the man was, he was used to street fighting.

And though Bronson, as a police officer, was trained in self-defense and unarmed combat, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to last against this larger and clearly very competent opponent. He needed to finish this, and quickly.

Then the man reached toward one of the pockets on his anorak, and Bronson immediately guessed that he was going for an equalizer—a gun or a knife. He couldn’t let that happen. Bronson took a step to one side, almost as if he was going to run away, then turned back and delivered a straight-leg kick to the side of the man’s right knee.

The human leg is designed to bend at the knee, to allow for walking and running, but the joint is never intended to bend sideways. There was an audible crack as something broke, and the man tumbled sideways with a scream of pain.

By that time Angela had scrambled to her feet. She turned round and stared at Bronson, and at the fallen man lying on the platform just beside him. The crowd of commuters had parted almost immediately when the fight had started, and had formed a rough circle around the combatants. People getting off the train stared at Bronson with interest, but almost all of them then moved away, continuing toward their destinations as the new passengers started to board. Londoners were remarkably resilient in their outlook.

“Quick, get on the train,” Bronson said urgently, scouring the platform for other threats. “Wait for me at Charing Cross. Stay where it’s crowded.”

Something about his voice told Angela that this was not the time to ask questions.

As she climbed into the train and stared back at him through the open doorway, he reached into his pocket, hauled out his warrant card and waved it at the handful of people who were still standing around and watching.

“This is a police matter,” he said. “Go about your business.”

He grabbed the man, who was now clutching his shattered knee with both hands, and unceremoniously pulled him back, away from the edge of the platform and to the back of it, where he propped him up against the wall. Swiftly, Bronson checked the man’s pockets, pulling out a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phone and a slim wallet that contained just a single credit card in the name of “J. W. Williams” and about two hundred pounds in cash. He replaced the wallet but retained the phone. In the side pocket of the man’s anorak he found a small semiautomatic pistol.

“You bastard,” the man hissed, tears of pain running down his face. “You’ve bloody crippled me.”

Bronson nodded. “That was the general idea,” he said, standing up and examining the weapon he’d just found: a Heckler & Koch P7, an uncommon weapon to find anywhere outside Germany, where it was designed as a police pistol. The obvious identification feature was the grip catch on the front of the butt, which prevented the weapon from firing unless it was depressed. Bronson slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket, then turned his attention back to the man lying in front of him.

Now that the Underground train had departed, the platform was largely empty of people, though a few more passengers were beginning to arrive, part of the endless daily traffic through the London Tube system.

Bronson crouched down beside the man and stared at him.

“I don’t know who you are,” he began, “but I’m absolutely sure I know what you are, and what you intended to do. Who’s paying you to kill the woman?”

“I’ve got no bloody idea what you’re talking about. All I know is you attacked me on the platform. Completely unprovoked.”

Bronson nodded, then casually rested his left hand on the man’s thigh and pushed sharply downward.

The man’s scream echoed around the confined space, and a couple of people turned toward Bronson and started heading in his direction. Again he waved his warrant card at them.

“I’m a police officer and the situation is under control,” he called out. “This man is injured and I’ve already requested medical assistance.”

Nobody apparently thought to ask how Bronson could have done that in the underground concrete cavern where no mobile phone could possibly work.

“If you get to a hospital within the next hour or so, you might walk again, but the longer you prat me about, the longer it’s going to take. You’ve got two choices. The messy way is I do what I should do as a policeman.”

“You’re not a copper,” the man snarled, interrupting him.

“I am, actually,” Bronson said, “but that really doesn’t matter. As I was saying, what I should do is scramble the paramedics, then arrest you for carrying a firearm, which will definitely put you in the slammer, and I’ll testify at your trial that I saw you try to push a woman in front of a train, and that’ll mean a charge of attempted murder, which should get you ten years at least. The trouble is, I’m in a hurry and that sounds to me like an awful lot of paperwork.

“The other option is you tell me what I want to know. As soon as you’ve done that, I’ll call the medics and then I’ll walk away with your gun in my pocket. You’ll get treatment and won’t be prosecuted, and you can continue with your sad career as long as your knee holds up. So I’ll ask you again: who paid you to kill the woman? Or would you like me to lean on your leg again?”

The man shook his head, sweat springing to his forehead. He swung his right fist clumsily toward Bronson, who easily avoided the blow.

Bronson stretched his hand back down toward the man’s knee.

“No, no, please don’t. I’ll tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t know his name. He called me a few days ago.”

“Oh,” Bronson said, “you advertise your services, do you? In the Yellow Pages, are you, under ‘Killers for hire’? Something like that?”

The man shook his head.

“People know how and where to find me. Anyway, he called. Cash job. Five grand, two up front, two on completion, with an extra grand as a bonus. He gave me all the details—work address, home address and stuff—but he didn’t tell me why he wanted her dead. They never do. I was supposed to do it in her flat, make it look like a burglary, an accidental death, if I could manage it, but yesterday he called me again, said he’d changed his mind and it had to be done immediately. That was the reason for the bonus.”

Bronson nodded, even more grateful than before that Angela had decided to spend the previous night in his house instead of at Ealing.

“That’s all I know. Now get me a bloody doctor.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Bronson replied, standing up as the next Northern Line train pulled into the station. “I’ll make the call as soon I get out of here.”